Chapter 4
MARCUS
I’ve been watching her for two weeks now, and it’s destroying me.
Charlie moves through St. Michael’s like she’s always belonged here, her vintage sundresses swirling around her thighs as she arranges flowers in the sanctuary, her auburn hair catching the light through the stained glass windows.
She hums that hymn her grandmother taught her while she works, the melody drifting through the empty church, and I find myself stopping whatever I’m doing just to listen.
I shouldn’t be watching. I definitely shouldn’t be noticing the way her dress clings to the curve of her hips when she reaches for the high shelves, or how her lips part slightly when she’s concentrating on some task Adrian has assigned her.
I shouldn’t be cataloging the freckles that dust her shoulders, visible when her cardigan slips, or imagining what it would feel like to trace them with my fingers.
But I am. God help me, I am.
I recognize the look in Adrian’s eyes because I’ve felt it myself. That dangerous pull toward someone you shouldn’t want, that gravitational force that makes every rational thought evaporate.
Three years ago, I left the priesthood for a woman named Isabella.
I never acted on it, never crossed that final line, but I came close enough that the guilt drove me out. I became a deacon instead, a compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.
Now I’m watching Adrian make the same mistake, except he’s actually crossing the line I never dared to.
I saw them that night. Heard them, really, the sounds echoing from his office after midnight.
I’d been in the sacristy organizing vestments when Charlie’s voice carried through the walls, breathless and desperate, followed by Adrian’s rough murmur of scripture twisted into something profane. I should have walked away.
Instead, I stood frozen in the darkness, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles went white, listening to them claim each other while my body burned with jealousy and want.
I know I should report this.
Should protect Adrian from himself, protect the parish from scandal, protect Charlie from becoming collateral damage in a priest’s crisis of faith.
But every time I open my mouth to say something, the words die in my throat.
Because I’m falling for her too.
It’s in the small things.
The way she brings cookies and breads to share after her midnight stress-baking sessions, still warm and perfect, her hazel eyes lighting up when we tell her they’re extraordinary.
The way she listens when I talk about the parish’s outreach programs, actually listens, asking intelligent questions that show she cares about more than just working off her debt.
The way she laughs at Elijah’s terrible jokes, her whole face transforming with genuine joy.
The way she looks at me sometimes, when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
Like she’s trying to figure me out.
Like she sees past the deacon’s collar to the man underneath who’s barely holding himself together.
I find myself in the choir loft before dawn, ostensibly to discuss music selections for Sunday Mass with Elijah.
He’s already at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys in something melancholic and beautiful.
The morning light filters through the stained glass, painting him in jewel tones, and I remember why people call him angelic.
That face, those crystalline blue eyes, the golden hair that curls at his nape. He looks like he belongs in a Renaissance painting, not a small parish church.
“You’re here early,” he says without looking up, his accent thickening slightly the way it does when he’s tired or emotional.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I lean against the railing, watching his hands move. “Thought we could go over the hymns for Sunday.”
“Liar.” His fingers still on the keys, and he turns to face me, those perceptive eyes seeing straight through my excuse. “You’re worried about Adrian.”
It’s not a question. Elijah has always been too observant, too good at reading the subtext beneath what people say. I should deny it, but I’m too exhausted to maintain the pretense.
“I saw them,” I admit, my voice rough. “Or heard them, anyway. In his office.”
Elijah’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“And?” he prompts gently.
“And he’s crossing a line that’s going to destroy him. Destroy all of us if anyone finds out.” I run my hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into my words. “He’s a priest, Elijah. She’s a parishioner who stole from the church. This is exactly the kind of scandal that gets parishes shut down.”
“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Elijah’s fingers trail over the piano keys, not quite playing, just touching. “The scandal?”
The question lands like a punch to the gut because he’s right. That’s not what’s eating at me. Not really.
“I don’t know what I’m worried about anymore,” I confess. “I just know I can’t stop thinking about her.” I grip the railing harder. “I’m watching Adrian fall apart over her, and all I can think is that I understand. That I’d do the same thing if I thought I had a chance.”
“And how do you look at her, Marcus?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning I’m not ready to unpack.
My throat tightens as I remember the curve of Charlie’s neck when she tilts her head, the swell of her breasts beneath her clothes, the way her ass looks when she’s on her knees scrubbing the church floors.
I imagine what it would feel like to pull her against me, to taste the skin at her throat, to hear her whisper my name the way she whispered Adrian’s.
Before I can answer, footsteps echo on the spiral staircase.
We both turn as Adrian appears at the top of the stairs, his gray eyes dark and unreadable.
He’s still in his cassock from morning prayers, at a glance the image of a respectable and devoted priest.
But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his rosary beads.
The three of us stand in weighted silence. Adrian’s gaze moves between Elijah and me, and understanding dawns in his expression.
He knows we were talking about him. About her. About the impossible situation we’re all caught in.
“Marcus,” Adrian says finally, his voice carefully controlled. “A word?”
But Elijah speaks before I can respond. “Actually, I think we all need to talk.”
Adrian’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. He moves into the choir loft, and suddenly the space feels too small for the three of us and all our secrets.
I’m hyperaware of the tension crackling through the air, the way we’re all carefully not looking at each other while simultaneously tracking every movement.
“How long have you known?” Adrian asks, directing the question at me.
“Since it happened in your office.” I meet his eyes, refusing to look away. “I heard you.”
Something dangerous flashes across Adrian’s face. Not anger, exactly. Something more complicated. “And you didn’t say anything.”
“What was I supposed to say?” My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “That you’re making the same mistake I almost made three years ago? That you’re risking everything for a woman you barely know? That I understand exactly why you’re doing it because I can’t stop thinking about her either?”
The confession hangs in the air between us. Elijah makes a soft sound, something between sympathy and resignation. Adrian’s expression shutters completely, his priest’s mask sliding into place.
“This isn’t about you,” Adrian says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Isn’t it?” I step closer, my frustration finally boiling over. “We made a pact, Adrian. The three of us, in the crypt, years ago. We swore we’d never let shame or fear destroy something good again. We promised we’d protect each other.”
“I remember,” Adrian says quietly.
“Then you remember that we also promised never to abandon each other.” I glance at Elijah, who’s watching us both with those too-perceptive eyes, then continue, “Charlie is exactly the kind of person that pact was meant to protect. Someone broken and desperate and trying to do better. Someone who needs us.”
“Someone you want,” Adrian counters, and there’s an edge to his voice now.
“Yes.” I don’t bother denying it. “Someone I want. Someone Elijah wants, too, if I’m reading him correctly.”
Elijah doesn’t confirm or deny, but the slight flush on his cheeks tells me everything I need to know.
Adrian’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “This is insane. We can’t all—”
“Can’t we?” The question comes from Elijah, his voice soft but steady. “We’ve already broken every rule that matters. Maybe it’s time we stop pretending we’re something we’re not.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can see Adrian processing, his mind working through the implications, the impossibility, the dangerous appeal of what Elijah is suggesting.
My own heart pounds against my ribs as I imagine it.
The three of us and Charlie, building something unconventional, and perfect, and completely forbidden.
“I need to think,” Adrian says finally, his voice strained. He turns and descends the stairs without another word, leaving Elijah and me alone in the choir loft.
I should feel relieved that the conversation is over. Instead, I feel more unsettled than before. Because now it’s out in the open. Now we all know what we want, even if we don’t know what to do about it.
I find Charlie in the church basement later that afternoon, organizing donated clothes for the parish’s outreach program.
She’s wearing jeans today instead of a dress, and they hug her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and there’s a smudge of dust on her cheek that I want to wipe away.
“Marcus.” She looks up, startled, her hazel eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I move closer, and the basement suddenly feels too small, too intimate. “We need to talk.”
Her face goes carefully blank. “About?”
“About Adrian.” I watch her reaction, see the way her breath catches, the flush that creeps up her neck. “I know what happened between you two.”
Charlie’s hands still on the box she’s sorting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” I step closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume mixed with the vanilla from her stress-baking. “And you need to end it before someone else discovers you.”
“Why do you care?” Her voice is defensive, but there’s vulnerability underneath.
“Because I—” I stop myself, but it’s too late. The words are already forming, already true. “Because I care about both of you. Because this will destroy him if it gets out. Because you deserve better than being someone’s secret.”
Charlie looks up at me, something shifting in her expression. “Is that really why you care? Or is there another reason?”
My hand finds her arm, to emphasize my point.
But the moment I touch her, electricity shoots through me.
Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, soft, and I can feel her pulse racing. She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she steps closer, her body angling toward mine, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips part slightly.
“Marcus,” she whispers, the same way she whispered Adrian’s name that night, and my name in her voice does something to me.
I should let go. Should step back. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
Instead, my thumb traces a small circle on her arm, and we both feel the spark between us, dangerous and undeniable.
It takes all my control to release her and step away, pushing down the regret and urge to look back at her.